One Path or The Other
by Aragarna
Summary: When John Reese receives Jessica's number, Harold reveals a well-kept secret: 25 years ago, the world split in 2 and things are a bit different on the other side. They never met, the Machine was never built, and Jessica didn't die. But now, she's in danger, and it's up to John Reese to cross over and save her. - Crossover with Counterpart. No knowledge of Counterpart necessary
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue **

**2006 in another world**

"Tell me to wait for you. Say those words, and I will."

John's heart was beating so hard against his ribcage that he thought it was going to escape. Just standing here with Jessica was plain torture. He hadn't seen her in three years, and he had fooled himself into thinking he was over her. But the truth was, he wasn't. His love for her was just as strong as it had always been, and will always be. But it was precisely because he loved her so much that he couldn't ask her to wait for him. Especially now that she was engaged. She was moving on. And it was his fault.

Not to mention that he had been specifically instructed to cut all ties from his previous life. He _couldn't_ ask her to wait for him. But what if she would?

"You would?" he asked tentatively. "You'd wait for me?"

Her gaze sparkled with hope a brief moment. She would, he knew she would. Which was just making it harder.

He shouldn't ask her to wait. It wouldn't be fair to her. And he would be disobeying a direct order…

"Wait for me," he breathed despite himself.

A beautiful smile illuminated her face. She let go of her suitcase and taking his head in her hands, she kissed him passionately.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

John was torn apart by contradictory feelings. The relief that he hadn't lost the love of his life and the guilt that he was starting his new job on a very wrong foot.

"They won't let us stay in touch," he said quickly. "And we shouldn't. It wouldn't be safe for any of us. We'll have to both pretend we've cut ties. Keep up appearances."

He could see the tears rising in her eyes as she nodded her understanding.

"I'll wait for you," she said in a shaky voice.

"I'll come back, I promise." He bent over and kissed her. "I love you, Sweetheart. Always will."


	2. Chapter 2

**2012 in this world – REESE**

A box of fresh donuts in hand, John squared his shoulders against the chilly wind of this cold winter morning. He was a couple blocks from the library when a payphone rang just as he passed it. John paused and looked at the ringing phone. What could be so urgent that it couldn't wait for him to be in the warmth of the library? With his free hand, John tightened his collar and picked up the phone. The familiar impersonal voice of the Machine immediately started speaking.

_Zucchini Foxtrot Lima Tomorrow Golf Charlie Martian Alpha Whiskey Prime_

It was a number. Wedging the handset between his shoulder and his ear, John slid a hand inside his jacket, and picked up his pen to note the number directly on the donut box. He then hung up and hurried to the library.

"Finch?" he called. "Breakfast is here."

But Finch was nowhere to be seen and John was only met by the silence of the abandoned library. He put down the box on the table sitting in the middle of their quarters and hung his coat on the rack. He then proceeded to collect the books to decipher the code that would lead him to a number. It was only when he was in possession of the three books that he realized the Machine had given him one too many words. What did the _Prime_ stand for?

He grabbed a donut and took a bite. Then he logged into the computer and after opening the SSN search, he typed in the number.

The image that appeared on the screen made him choke on his pastry. It was Jessica.

For a moment, John's brain froze. He wasn't sure how to process the information. Was the Machine losing it? Could Jessica be alive? But then, how? Why? Heart pounding, John forced himself to calm down and think. He shook his head, annoyed at himself for letting such silly irrational thoughts poison his mind. It couldn't be. He knew Jessica was dead.

What did it mean, then?

John was still staring at the screen, unable to take his eyes off of Jessica's picture, when Harold walked into the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Ree- "

But John's evident distress stopped him.

"John, what's wrong?"

"I'm not sure," John said in a hoarse voice as he jumped up from Harold's chair. "The Machine gave me Jessica's number."

Harold paled as he looked at the young woman's photograph on the screen and his gaze lingered on the number noted on the pastry box. John had hoped that it was just a glitch, something that Harold would wave off and embarrassingly apologize for. But from Harold's reaction, it wasn't a simple glitch from the Machine. It was _something_. And that wasn't very reassuring.

Harold turned back to face him. "Mr. Reese, it's not what you think. Jessica, _your_ Jessica, is unfortunately not alive. And I want you to know that I would never hide something like this from you."

John nodded shortly. Of course he trusted Finch. "What is it, then? The Machine mixed up numbers? Someone took Jessica's identity?"

Harold took the seat and shook his head. "I'm afraid it's more complicated than this, John." He marked a pause before going on. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to tell you about this," he sighed. "But I guess it's too late, now."

John was utterly confused. If Jessica was dead, and if it wasn't a glitch, then what was it? And why was it worrying Harold so much?

Harold gestured toward a spare chair behind them. "Please take a seat, Mr. Reese."

Intrigued by so much caution, John complied and sat down on the chair.

Harold cleared his throat and started his story.

"When we first connected the Machine to government feeds, Nathan and I discovered a lot of secrets of all sorts. This is one of them – and frankly one of the most disturbing ones we ever found. About 25 years ago, during the Cold War, something happened in Berlin. It's unclear what exactly. There is no official record and it's been kept under a tight lid since then. But whatever occurred, the world sort of… replicated. And there are now two worlds, slowly diverging as time goes. As a consequence, there are now two versions of each of us who were already born at the time. Two versions of me, two versions of you."

Harold locked his gaze to John's.

"Two versions of Jessica."

John's heart missed a beat.

"Every now and then," Harold went on, "we receive a prime number. The number from someone on the other side. You have to understand, Mr. Reese. While there is one known door to the other side, it is very strictly guarded by a UN office in Berlin, and we have no way to simply hop there to save the prime numbers. We can't."

"So it's like your _irrelevant_ irrelevant list?" John retorted sarcastically. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

Harold shot him a contrite look. "I knew it would be difficult for you to accept that there are people _we cannot save_."

A sharp pain grew inside John's chest as the implications of Harold's revelations sank in. "So what you are saying is that there is another world where Jessica is alive?" he hissed between his teeth. "And right now she's in danger but we're supposed to not do anything?"

"John, it's not _your_ Jessica. It's another Jessica, who led another life. You can't let your emotions…"

"But she's in danger, Finch," John snapped, jumping to his feet.

The urgency rising inside him was burning and imperative. He had to do it. It wasn't the Jessica he had known, but it was still a version of Jessica. Twenty-five years ago, Jessica, like everyone else, split in two. The one from this side died, but somehow, the other one didn't. Another version of Jessica was alive over there. He couldn't simply stand there and let her die too. He had to save her.

He resolutely walked to the computer.

"What do we know about her?" he asked, putting up her profile.

She was registered as a nurse at Manhattan General under the name Jessica Mitchell. It was her maiden name. She wasn't married then. Thank God, this Jessica didn't marry that murderous trash of Peter Arndt. John hoped that if she was seeing someone, whoever that could be, he was taking good care of her.

"Do we have anything else on her?" he asked.

Harold shook his head. "There is very little information coming through from the other side. It's virtually impossible to build a case from here. We can't track her. All we have is her home address."

John noted down the address in Brooklyn and slid the piece of paper in the inner pocket of his jacket. "I do have some experience in the art of old fashioned espionage and intelligence, Finch."

"John, please reconsider, it's dangerous," Harold pleaded. "How are you even going to go through? The only pathway is in Berlin."

John looked at Harold, resolute. "I'm going, Harold." He'd go to Hell and back if it meant he could save Jessica. Any version of Jessica. "I think the Machine wanted me to. That's why it sent me this number."

Harold sighed, and gave John a heavy look. "There's nothing I can say that would change your mind, is there?"

John shook his head.

"Alright," Harold finally conceded.

He paused, thinking. Suddenly he got an idea and picked a piece of paper and wrote something on it. He then folded it and handed it to John.

"You'll have to figure out things on your own once you've crossed. And I have no doubt about your spying skills. But if need be, try and find the other me. Hopefully he stuck to Harold Wren. Show him this message. It'll help convince him that what you're saying is true."

"Meet the other you?" John grinned. "I can't wait."

John took the note and put it in his pocket. He was about to walk away, but he turned back to face his friend.

"Harold? Thank you."

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**OVER THERE – WILSON**

"Any sign of Silk, John?" Kara asked through John's earpiece.

They had been sent to Berlin the day before to get rid of an American spy working at the UN office in the German capital. Intel said he was trading secrets with the other side. Though which other side exactly hadn't been specified.

It had taken them barely twenty-four hours to locate him. It seemed Silk wasn't aware they were onto him. They had followed him to one of those deserted over-sized malls built before the Flu. Kara and John had split to cover more ground and John had taken the lower floors while Kara was venturing in the upper levels. Turning left at the end of a long hallway, John spotted his target.

"I've got eyes on him," he whispered, as he watched Silk nervously checking his surroundings. He seemed up to something, but was clearly not comfortable about it. If he was a spy, he didn't appear to be a very good one. He hadn't even noticed John's presence.

"Good," Kara said in his ear. "You need a hand?"

"Doesn't look much of a threat," John said quickly. "I'll take care of him. I'll dump him in the sewage and meet you at the car."

John cut the communication and drew his weapon, holding it at hip level. Then he resolutely walked to Silk. The so-called spy startled and turned around. Catching John's deadly stare, he flinched and stepped back, holding his hands up.

"I… Who are you?" Silk stuttered. "Where is Howard?"

John tilted his head and locked his eyes with Silk's terrified gaze. He'd seen his share of spies and traitors in his life. He had learned to recognize it. The guilt, hiding behind a false swaggering air. There was none of that in Silk's eyes. Only genuine confusion and fear. This man had nothing to do with the seasoned elite agent described in the confidential file. Slowly, John lowered his weapon.

"We should get you out of here," he said in a low voice.

"I don't understand."

"I've looked into the eyes of traitors before, Silk. You're no traitor. You just look like a man who's trapped. You're gonna take the next bus headed to Maine. When you – …"

The sharp sound of a gun cocking behind him made John stop. Slowly, he turned around to face Kara, who was standing twenty feet from him, a cocky grin at the corner of her lips.

"Oh John…" She said. "What have you done?"

He knew she was too smart to come any closer, and she would press the trigger the moment he made his move.

"He's not who we think he is," John argued, mostly to gain time – he knew very well Kara wouldn't listen. She never questioned orders.

She raised an eyebrow. "I really thought you had put all this behind you by now. I guess I've underestimated the weakness of your heart."

"Silk, run!" John shouted suddenly as he plunged toward Kara. She pulled the trigger immediately and he took the bullet in the gut, almost point blank. John clenched his teeth at the pain, but didn't let it slow him down. He briskly shoved Kara against the wall and ran toward the corner of the corridor. He wasn't sure who she'd choose to run after, him or Silk. He was hoping she'd go after him, but he didn't have time to look over his shoulder. Reaching the center of the mall, where escalators were running idle, he jumped over the railing and landed heavily on the level below.

Keeping a protective hand on his wounded side, and on the verge of collapsing, John disappeared into the maze of the mall.

* * *

**HERE – REESE**

"There's no convincing you to reconsider?" Harold asked again a few hours later as he accompanied John to the international departure terminal at JFK.

John gave him an apologetic smile. "You know I have to do this."

Harold nodded and handed John an envelope. "Here are your papers. You are now John Brown, American diplomat working in Strategy for the UN Office of Interchange – it's the office controlling the passage. You have sensitive documents to transmit to the other side as part of a knowledge exchange agreement. You will be granted a three day visa. Please, John, I beg you, make sure to come back within those three days. The last thing we want is to bring attention on us by creating a diplomatic incident at the border between two worlds."

"I promise, Harold."

The flight to Berlin was eight long and frustrating hours that John could regrettably not accelerate. Fortunately, it wasn't long until Harold contacted him via VoIP to give him additional information.

"I did some digging into the UN files about the other world," Harold explained in John's earpiece. "It was tricky. There is barely any information passing between the two worlds, but somehow the Machine managed to find a door. I had to take an incredibly convoluted path before I could get into a server from the other side."

It was a good thing that Harold could not see John, as the ex-agent was rolling his eyes at the convoluted path Finch was taking to get to the point.

"They've been trading all sorts of technology and intelligence information for years," Finch went on. "But I did not see any indication of an equivalent to the Machine over there."

"So, our other selves aren't saving people?" John asked, vaguely disappointed. He wondered what he had become over there. "Did we even meet?"

"Probably not. From what I managed to gather, 9/11 did not occur and Nathan Ingram and Harold Wren never built anything for the government. But IFT – our company – is very wealthy and competitive."

"Anything on me?"

John's heart accelerated. If 9/11 didn't happen, he probably didn't re-up. And thus he never left Jessica.

"Very little. There's a record of a John Tallis in the force until 2005, as a Ranger and later a Green Beret. After this nothing. Hopefully Mr. Wren will be able to help you clarify this."

John's heart sank. He didn't re-up, but apparently, he hadn't quit before their weekend in Mexico either. He sighed.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Reese," Harold said sympathetically through the phone, as if he had followed John's trail of thoughts.

"Thanks, Harold. Be safe."

John wasn't comfortable leaving Harold alone to work the numbers. He caught himself wishing he could split himself in two and grinned. He shook his head and inclined his seat. He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.

* * *

He arrived in Berlin at the crack of dawn and without a minute to lose he hailed a taxi to drive him to the UN office.

Harold had expressly instructed him to ditch his phone before going in. Cellphone technology was a critical point of leverage between the two sides, and they wouldn't let him bring his.

"I'm going in, Harold."

"Good luck, Mr. Reese."

John reluctantly took off his earwig, pulled the sim card out of his phone, broke it in two and ditched it all in a trash can. Feeling suddenly figuratively naked and vulnerable without his connection to Harold, he took a deep breath and pushed the door of the UN office.

He walked with pretended confidence past the reception desk and directly to the elevator, as Harold had instructed him. He swiped his ID and called for the basement.

There, he was welcomed by security guards in uniforms. He showed his ID with a warm smile but was only met with a stern look. One guard gestured him to step aside and he was asked to empty his pockets and a second guard patted him down thoroughly. Once they were assured he wasn't transporting any contraband, he was instructed to wait in line behind a couple of other people, so John complied. He was a seasoned agent, used to undercover work and stressful situations. He knew the last thing to do was to look nervous and impatient. But damn was it difficult to keep his cool when he had already lost so much time, and another eight-hour transatlantic flight was waiting for him on the other side.

Finally, it was his turn and he presented his fake visa through the window to the customs officer. Everything was surprisingly low tech. There were no computers, no cameras.

"Reason for your trip?" the officer asked laconically.

"Courier duty," John said, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about.

"Anything to declare?"

"One diplomatic pouch."

The customs officer stamped his visa and handed it back to John. "Seventy-two hours. Don't be late."

John walked past the customs booth and exited the room through an automatic door. Beyond was a simple underground tunnel. With only one possible way to go, John followed the tunnel, which went down for about twenty yards before going back up. Reaching the other side, John climbed a series of steps which led him to another automatic door. The door opened as he approached, and he found himself in the exact replica of the room he had just left. If he didn't have the certitude he had been going straight, he would have thought he was back where he came from.

Once again, he had to show his visa and state the reason for his visit. Boring, frustrating bureaucracy, but fortunately, everything went smoothly and he was allowed out.

He hailed a taxi to bring him back to Tegel airport – the _other _Tegel airport. Looking through the window as they drove through Berlin, John was struck by how different this Berlin felt compared to the one he knew. He recognized some iconic and historical buildings, and the TV tower was still piercing the sky. But there were a lot more modern glassy skyscraper buildings. There were also a lot less people in the streets. It looked weirdly clean and impersonal.

At the airport, John pickpocketed a wealthy man's wallet before heading to an airline counter. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Concorde was still flying on this side. It'd make the flight across the Atlantic a lot shorter. He booked the first flight to New York and proceeded to security.

Airport security was another surprise. John wasn't asked to take off his coat, jacket, shoes and belt. Instead, after being scanned from head to toes, he was asked to put his finger into a little container attached to a computer. He felt a pinch as he was stuck by a needle. Some sort of medical machine processed his blood, and only after it gave the greenlight, was he authorized to proceed to his gate.

Compared to the usual eight to nine hour transatlantic flights he was used to, the three hours aboard Concorde seemed to flash by. Soon, he could make out the shoreline of New Jersey and New York. He recognized the lines of Manhattan, squeezed between the Hudson bay and East River. As they got even closer, his heart tightened at the sight of the unmistakable double figure of the World Trade Center twin towers, standing tall at the far South end of the island.

9/11 had been such a defining event in his world, with consequences echoing all around the world. He wondered how different this world had to be, if none of this happened there.

to be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

**OVER THERE – WILSON**

John ran as far as he possibly could, given the amount of blood he was losing. Luckily for him, the streets were mostly empty. Once he was sure enough that no one was following him, he allowed himself to slow down. Venturing in small streets away from the large avenues of downtown Berlin, he assessed his situation. He was burnt. He was seriously injured. He couldn't go back to their hideout, nor to any hospital. All his Berlin contacts were known to the CIA. He'd have to take care of his injury himself and find a place to lay low for a couple days.

Feeling the fever taking over his body, John checked himself into a hotel sketchy enough to take cash and no name. It should keep him from the company's prying eye at least for a few days, hopefully long enough for his body to recover. He winced at the sight of the filthy bed, but traitors can't be choosers. A shiver ran through his spine. He had to take care of this bullet lodged in his belly fast. He took off his long black coat and laid it on the bed. He opened the bottle of whiskey he had just bought at a grocery store around the corner, along with tweezers and some gauze. He unbuttoned his shirt and looked down at the bleeding hole in his belly. He grabbed the tweezers and took a deep breath. God, did he hate this part.

* * *

John sat up, immediately on high alert, his hand on the handle of his gun under the pillow. He was still wondering what had wakened him when he heard the faint buzz of his phone ringing in his jacket. He had thrown away the Agency's phone. The one that was ringing was the other one. The secret phone, only known to him and Jessica.

His freshly sewed-up wound had not appreciated the sudden movement and a violent pain was radiating through his midsection. Groaning, John got up on his feet and extended his hand to reach for his jacket, on the chair next to the bed. He caught it by the lapel and tugged it back to him, sitting back on the bed with a sigh of relief.

It was a miracle that this phone hadn't run out of battery yet. With the events of the last couple of days, he hadn't thought about checking the level of charge as he usually did. Thankfully, those old burner phones had much longer battery lives than the modern fancy phones. By the time he had pulled the phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, the phone had stopped ringing and he had a new voicemail. He pressed 1 to listen to the message.

_It's me, Jessica. I mean I don't even know if you still check this number. Um, I need to talk._

This didn't sound good. They had agreed to keep radio silence, as to keep their relationship a secret to his bosses. John knew they wouldn't approve, and Jessica had understood. She'd wait, she said. She was willing to wait. And she knew she was to only use this number in case of an emergency. They hadn't talked in years, and sometimes John wondered if she wouldn't be tired of waiting for him.

He interrupted the message and dialed back Jessica's number. She picked up immediately.

"Jessica," John breathed, his heart pounding with emotion to be talking to her after all this time. "I got your message."

"I didn't know if you'd call me back," Jessica said.

Hearing her voice made him realize how much he'd missed her. He felt the urge to hold her, feel her, be with her. If he hadn't been burned already, he might have just given his resignation the following day, so that he could run back to her.

"We haven't talked in what, four years?" Her voice was unsure, worried.

"What's wrong?" John asked, his own worry immediately multiplying.

"I'm fine. I just..." She stopped.

"Something's wrong," John pressed gently. "Talk to me." How he wished he could take her in his arms right now. Pull her close, feel the weight of her head on his shoulder, the warmth of her body spooning against his.

"I think I'm being followed. And there's a car parked in the street. I mean it could be new neighbors but..."

John was already up, trying to put his pants on with one hand, while holding the phone to his ear with the other. Worry had given way to a sense of urgency and action. This was no coincidence, they were after Jessica.

"I'm coming to get you. I'll be there in twenty-four hours. Wait for me," he added, echoing their last conversation.

"I'll wait."

* * *

**REESE**

The taxi had barely parked in front of the main entrance to the hospital and John was already on the sidewalk. He slid a bill to the driver.

"Keep the change," he said, as he walked off. If he hadn't been so pressed by the urgency of the situation, he might have stopped to wonder if a bill printed on his side would actually be spotted as counterfeited, here. But right now, his entire being was only focused on Jessica Mitchell. Given that it was almost midday, she'd likely be at work, so John had decided to check the hospital first.

Passing the glass doors, John rushed to the admission desk where a nurse in dark pink scrubs greeted him with a smile.

"May I help you, sir?"

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to slow down his racing heart. This sounded all too much like deja-vu.

"I'm looking for Jessica," he said, unable to contain the shake in his voice. "Jessica Mitchell. I… I'm a friend of hers."

"I'm sorry, sir, Jessica did not come to work today."

John's heart missed a bit. Pivoting on his heels, he rushed back to the door, ignoring the inquiring calls of the desk nurse in his back. He gestured to try and get the attention of another cab, but then thought better. Jessica was living miles away, in Brooklyn. John could already picture himself dying of frustration being stuck in traffic. He looked around for a more efficient means of transport. Ambulances had the advantage of being priority vehicles, but might be a little too visible. Spotting two-wheelers parked on his left, he quickly opted for a powerful motorbike. Doing his best not to attract attention, he quickly disabled the security of the vehicle and swiftly got on. A security guard was coming closer, hand on the handle of his gun, clearly suspicious of John's behavior. Glancing at him, John pressed on the gas and disappeared into traffic just as the guard was calling for backup through his talkie. Luckily, John was already gone.

Half an hour later, John was turning onto DeKalb avenue. He immediately spotted the flashing lights of the police cars. His heart sank. He was too late. He reduced his speed and slowly passed by two police cars and an ambulance, parked in front of number 1134. Jessica's. It was one of those brownstone houses, typical of this part of Brooklyn: red brick facade, a tiny garden in the front, with a mailbox and a painted iron gate. The police had set a perimeter in front of the house and uniforms were conducting door-to-door interviews. John continued down the street and taking the first left, turned around the block and stopped in a street parallel to DeKalb. With a kick, he secured the stand of his bike and got off. He looked around, making sure no one was watching, slid through a small alley between two houses, reaching the backyard. From there, he jumped over fences and hedges from backyard to backyard until he reached Jessica's building. Careful not to step on anything likely to make noise, he approached the rear window and peeked inside. It was the window to the kitchen. For there, he also had a partial view of the living room at the front of the house, where, contrarily to the unremarkable kitchen, there were obvious signs of struggles. A chair had been knocked over, books and magazines were scattered all over the floor. John's heart suddenly sank as he spotted feet lying still next to the chair. From where he was, he couldn't see the whole body, but the one shoe still on was a sharp black bootie with a small heel. Definitely female.

John reached out for the back door and turned the knob. It wasn't locked. He cautiously pushed it ajar just enough for him to slide through. Staying hidden from the paramedics occupying the next room, John crossed the kitchen and flattened against the wall to get a full view of the body. Recognizing who it was, John stepped back in shock, almost knocking over a cup left on the countertop behind him.

"Who is it? Is there someone in the kitchen?" someone called from the living room.

John had to get out of here. He lunged for the door and burst out. As he raced back through the backyards to his bike, he couldn't erase from his mind the image of Kara, lying dead in a large pool of blood, a hole in the middle of her forehead.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

**REESE**

Standing on the odd-numbered side of Park Avenue, John looked up at the large IFT banner spreading over 10 floors at the front of the tall building. _It's all in the details_ the banner said. Indeed. A word kept silent, or said. Each action taken, each choice made. All those little things that led to such a different world. A world where things had turned out quite differently for Harold Finch. Or rather, as he called himself here, Harold Wren.

John took a deep breath and walked to the receptionist's desk showing his most charming smile.

"Hi, my name is John Reese, I'm here to see Harold Wren."

The receptionist smiled back. "Certainly, sir, let me check Mr. Wren's calendar."

John leaned slightly over the counter. "This is an impromptu visit. I'm an old friend of Harold's. He said if I was ever in town, I should stop by, he'd give me a tour."

The receptionist frowned, not buying John's little speech. Eyeing Harold Wren's schedule on her computer screen, John caught today's schedule. Wren was currently in a meeting in room 345. The meeting was supposed to end in ten minutes. That should be plenty of time for John to find the room.

He greeted the receptionist with a cordial smile, but instead of aiming for the door, he walked to the elevator where a young man was getting in.

John slid in behind him just as the doors were closing.

"Excuse me, I'm new here," he said, playing the stressed new recruit. "Can you remind me which floor is room 345?"

The man grinned. "This building is confusing, isn't it? I started a month ago and I'm just getting my bearings. Room 345, as its name doesn't say, is on the 7th floor. Take a left, it's at the end of the corridor. Big meeting room on your right, you can't miss it."

John pressed number 7 on the elevator pad. "Thanks!" He had eight minutes left to plan the best strategy to talk Harold Wren into helping him, a complete stranger that he had no reason to trust.

Assuming the meeting ended on time.

The meeting ended right on time. Through the glass wall of the meeting room, John saw Harold Wren peek at his watch, and close the large notebook he had in front of him. With a nod to the assembly, the man stood up and walked out, followed by Nathan Ingram who gave Harold a friendly pat on the shoulder before parting ways. John stepped back into the shadows and followed Harold discreetly back to his office. It was a bit unsettling to see a man that looked _exactly_ like Harold, who was wearing _exactly_ the same kind of bespoke three-piece suits, and yet, who was _not_ Harold. The most obvious clue was that Wren was not limping, his gait much smoother and confident than Finch's. Wren also seemed a bit more athletic than Finch, showing a thinner silhouette. Of course, Finch's injuries prevented him from much physical activity. Wren, on the other hand, was clearly keeping in shape.

John waited for the man to enter his office. Watching through the glass door, he made sure Wren was alone before following him in.

Harold Wren, who had just sat down at his desk, jumped up. "Excuse me, who are you?"

John raised his hands in sign of peace. He carefully closed the door behind him and took the seat in front of the desk.

"I'm here to ask for your help, Mr. Wren," he started. "That's the name you prefer, isn't it?" he added with a short smirk, hoping that showing his hand would help Wren take him seriously. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell anybody about you."

Harold shot him a dark look as he sat back in his chair. "You don't know anything about me," he said defiantly.

"Oh, I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Wren," John said, echoing Finch's words to him when they first met. "You can call me Mr. Reese."

"What do you want?" Wren cut, unimpressed.

"Your help."

"And why would I help you?"

"There is another world," John started. "A world where your counterpart and I are working together. You invented a machine that can predict people's actions and thus prevent crimes."

"That sounds vaguely dystopian, and quite terrifying."

John leaned forward. "In my world, you built this program, Mr. Wren."

Wren chuckled. "This is where I don't buy it, Mr. Reese. As an expert in AI and deep learning, I'm well placed to know predictive machines aren't such a stretch. But another world? What is it? A parallel dimension? With another version of me?" He shook his head. "Nonsense."

John reached for the piece of paper Finch had given him before he left and stretched his arm to hand it to Wren. With a highly skeptical look plastered on his face, Harold took the paper and unfolded it.

"Harold – my Harold," John explained, "thought it might help convince you that what I'm saying is true."

John watched Wren as he read the note. He raised an eyebrow and looked up at John, locking his gaze into his. Then, after a long silence, Wren simply nodded. He put the piece of paper in the shredder and, readjusting his glasses, he leaned back in his chair.

"I'm listening, Mr. Reese."

This had been easier than John anticipated. He hadn't even reached the part where he convinced Wren that something was missing in his life: a purpose. Whatever _Dashwood_ meant, it clearly meant a lot to Harold – all the Harolds in the world, even.

"The Machine gives us numbers – social security numbers – of people in danger. Yesterday I received the number of a woman from this world. She's in danger. I went to her place, there were obvious signs of struggle, but no sign of her. I think she's been kidnapped. It's probably the CIA. I need to find her." John looked at Wren with pleading eyes. "Please help me find her, Harold."

"How?"

John tilted his head. "Well, you're good with computers, aren't you?"

Realizing John wanted him to track the mysterious lady, maybe hack the CIA even, Wren opened wide eyes. "And clearly my… _counterpart_ has used this skill to interesting purposes," he said, rather disapprovingly.

John shrugged. "We're helping people."

Harold simply nodded and sat up to reach his keyboard on his desk. "Do you have her name? If she has a phone, we can use the GPS to find her location."

"Her name is Jessica Mitchell. I doubt they let her keep her phone, but maybe she was seen by cameras. If we could track her last location, then cross-reference with their list of local safe-houses, we could pinpoint where they took her."

Harold started typing. "Who's they?" he asked without taking his eyes off of the screen.

"The CIA. I'm guessing Mark Snow is behind the kidnapping. Kara Stanton was found dead at Jessica's apartment this morning, though I'm guessing they managed to keep this under wraps. Also, those are aliases. No way to know for sure if they picked the same names in this world."

Harold stopped typing. "Jessica Mitchell's last call was last night, from her home. An international call to a burner in Berlin, Germany."

"Can you find out who the burner belonged to?"

Harold shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. But apparently she left a message, which I can retrieve from the provider's server."

Harold pressed a key and the recording played. _It's me, Jessica. I mean I don't even know if you still check this number..._

John distinctively felt his heart break, inside his chest, all over again. It was her voice, her exact same voice, as if Jessica was calling him from beyond the grave. In this world too, Jessica called him for help – because John had no doubt the burner belonged to his other self. Where was he, now? On his way from Berlin, no doubt. But why was the CIA after Jessica? They had no right to go after her.

"Mr. Reese?"

Harold Wren's voice reached him through the icy fog that had submerged him. John raised toward him a heavy gaze. He tried to compose himself, but he could tell from Wren's worried look that he was failing at bottling up his feelings. There are certain wounds that simply cannot heal.

"Who is she, to you?" Wren asked gently.

John swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away, unable to answer. He hadn't realized how much easier it had been that Finch knew everything. He never had to explain, express his feelings, justify his behavior. Finch understood.

"Can you find her location?" he finally said, his voice hoarse.

Wren readjusted his glasses on his nose and nodded. "It'll take some time but I can certainly find my way through the CIA's servers. Assuming they keep records of their properties -"

John smirked coldly. "Oh they do. The CIA is not so different from any other administration..."

Harold nodded reassuringly. "Give me an hour, and I'll have everything you need, Mr. Reese."

John sighed. Patience, especially in so pressing times, had never been his forte. But Wren was his best shot at finding Jessica.

He forced himself to his feet. "I'll get back to you in one hour, then."

"Where are you going?"

"If I'm going after the CIA, I'm gonna need the appropriate arsenal."

John was already at the door when Wren called him back. "Mr. Reese, wait."

He fumbled quickly in his drawer, picked up a pen and piece of paper, and wrote down a note. He nimbly crossed the room. And put it in John's hand.

"This is my number. Get yourself a phone and call me."

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

**WILSON**

It actually barely took twelve hours for John to land back on American soil. Despite his impatience and the urgency of the situation, he took a few cautious detours via Brussels and London by rail before taking a Concord flight to Washington. He couldn't afford to be stopped by the CIA now. Though in all likeliness, they were simply waiting for him in front of Jessica's. He wasn't born yesterday, he was perfectly aware they were using her to get to him. They wouldn't be so clumsy as to be spotted so easily by a civilian. Jessica wasn't even the paranoid type. It was all theatrics. They probably made themselves seen on purpose, so that they'd see if she'd reached out to him. They knew him all too well. And they knew that it didn't matter if he knew it was a trap, he'd come all the same.

John got off the Amtrak at Grand Central Station just after sunrise. Way too anxious, he hadn't slept at all during the whole travel. The time difference was kind of disconcerting for his inner clock, but his whole body was running on adrenaline and he knew he wouldn't rest until he had found Jessica. He asked the taxi to stop a couple blocks from her place and he cautiously continued on foot. He had taken the precaution to buy clothes at the train station: a puff jacket and a pair of baggy jeans that would change his silhouette, and a ball cap to hide his face. Hopefully the whole attire, while concealing his identity from potential agents, would not be too obnoxiously a disguise. Blending in and becoming invisible was an art. In addition, his bulky jacket had the advantage of hiding the guns he had also brought with him.

He turned into DeKalb Ave three blocks from the house. From there he could see the van posted in the front. As he slowly progressed toward the house, he started elaborating a plan. He couldn't simply drop by. The moment the agents posted in the street would realize it was him, they'd jump on him – or simply take him down. He had a better chance to reach Jessica via the back door. John had never been inside Jessica's house, but he knew this kind of neighborhood where all houses were similar, with a small garden in the back, separated by neat green hedges. He was about to take a left to go around the block when a car passed him at full speed, only to abruptly stop in front of Jessica's house. Kara and Mark jumped out of the car and climbed the front steps of Jessica's house. Discarding his plan, John ran. Kara had already pressed the doorbell and a minute later Jessica was opening the door. John didn't even slow down as he crossed a perpendicular street, causing an oncoming car to abruptly slow down, and its driver to angrily honk at him. Unfortunately, the honk attracted the attention of the CIA agents. Spotting him, Mark pulled his gun as Kara shoved Jessica in the house.

Just as fast, John pulled simultaneously the two guns he was hiding in his parka's pocket. From the right, he started shooting toward the two agents coming out the van parked across the street, while from the left, he fired toward Mark, forcing him to take cover. But even with two handguns, John was out-powered and didn't stand much of a chance. He plunged over the bushes to his left and dashed through the narrow alley between the two houses closest to him. He could hear the footsteps of one agent behind him. He had at least managed to stop one of them. As John turned the corner, he rotated just enough to take aim without losing his footing. You can't be picky when you're being chased so he aimed center mass and focused back his attention on Jessica's house, now less than ten feet away. In three strides, he was at the back door and knocked it down.

Through the door to the living room, he heard Jessica scream and a loud crash. He rushed to the living room to see Jessica and Kara, struggling on the floor, in the middle of what remained of Jessica's glass coffee table. Jessica was valiantly trying to escape Kara's grip, but she didn't have the agent's training. Mark was standing behind them, gun in hand, and confident Kara would quickly overpower Jessica.

Standing tall in the kitchen's door, John held each of his guns. He pointed one at Kara, the other at Mark. Jessica stopped and turned around.

"John..." she murmured, relief washing over her at the sight of her savior.

John's heart accelerated at the sound of her voice, but he forced himself to keep his gaze on Kara.

"Let her go," he said coldly.

Prompt to her feet, Kara grabbed Jessica's arm to force her up. Jessica screamed in pain as Kara twisted her arm to place the captive in front of her, using her as a shield. Ignoring her, Kara cocked her head and mockingly smiled at John.

"Hello, _lover_."

John darted an icy look at Kara and repeated his threat. "Let. Her. Go."

"Just surrender, Wilson," Mark said with a smirk. "We'll let her go."

"Wilson?" Jessica said in a small voice, looking confusedly at John.

Kara jerked her arm back and Jessica let out another scream of pain. This was too much for John. Without a second thought, he pressed the trigger. The bullet hit Kara in the middle of the forehead and she fell heavily on her back. Petrified, Jessica didn't dare make any move. John threw himself at her but Mark was closer and managed to grab her even as he pointed his gun right to John's face.

John stopped dead. Stepping back to a safer distance, he dropped one gun to get a steady hold of the other with both hands. But Mark had learned the lesson and, holding Jessica at arm's length in front of him, he made sure not to give his opponent any angle.

Jessica was terrified, desperately looking for John's gaze. Slowly, Mark forced her to back up toward the door.

John clenched his teeth, anger and frustration boiling in his veins. But he couldn't shoot. He couldn't surrender either because he knew Mark would fire as soon as John would lower his gun.

"John..." Jessica sobbed.

Keeping Jessica as close as possible, Mark made his way down the front steps. One of the agents that John had shot earlier was standing by the van, holding an assault weapon. Stopping at the threshold and grinding his teeth in desperation, John was forced to let Mark and Jessica back away.

"I'll come and get you, Sweetheart," he said, locking his gaze to Jessica's. "I'll fix this, I promise."

Jessica swallowed and nodded shortly, sending him the silent message that she trusted him.

John turned his gaze toward his ex-partner. "You're a dead man, Mark," he roared. "That's a promise, too."

Mark shot in John's direction, forcing him to back up inside the house to take cover. Tears of rage rolled down John's face as he heard the van drive away, taking Jessica away from him.

* * *

**REESE**

It wasn't hard for John to find weapons. He was happy to see that in this world, just like in his, Anton O'Mara had followed his father's steps into the trade of weaponry. Except in this world, Anton hadn't encountered John that fateful night in the subway. Therefore, Anton's business had been flourishing.

Until now.

John had just finished giving Anton and his gang a shooting lesson when his phone rang.

"I've found Ms. Mitchell's last known location," Harold announced over the phone. "From there, I've pinpointed the likeliest CIA hideout. Tell me where you are, I'll come and pick you up."

Finally, John had a lead. He felt the rush of fight burst through his veins.

"Meet me at the North-West corner of Union Square. I'll be there in five."

Picking a gym bag from Anton's stash, John filled it with as many weapons and ammunition as he could fit. There was no version of Snow in the world that would prevent him from finding Jessica.

* * *

Five minutes later, a black Lincoln stopped at John's level. He swiftly climbed into the passenger seat, putting his arsenal on the back seat.

"We're going to the Catskills," Harold announced, as he made his way through traffic. Wren was an efficient and assured driver.

They stopped half a mile away from an isolated house, which, according to Harold, was property of the Agency. During the trip, Wren had updated John on the research he had done.

"I couldn't find a Mark Snow, but I did find a Mark Winters," he went on. "He's been picked up by surveillance cameras here in New York City. It seemed he arrived yesterday. I was able to retrace his approximate steps. He's good at remaining unseen, but it's hard to avoid all cameras in the city."

"You don't have to tell me," John smirked.

Keeping his eyes on the road, Harold pointed at a messenger bag on the back seat. "Here, in my laptop."

John reached for the bag and retrieved the laptop. He fired it up. A lock screen appeared.

"Dashwood," Harold simply said.

John smiled as he typed in the word. So it was Harold's password. He'd have to ask Finch where that came from.

On the laptop's screen appeared a map of New York's five boroughs. In red, a route labeled "Mitchell" that ended at Jessica's apartment. In a blue dashed line, a second path, labeled "Winters", with dots where he'd been spotted by cameras. While there was no data from Dekalb Ave, a camera did spot Winters in the neighborhood. Harold had taken a screenshot. John recognized the man immediately. It was Mark indeed. The camera's timestamp matched the timeline. There was another screenshot, from a motorway toll camera, showing Winters and Jessica in a car. Winters was behind the wheel. He had raised his left hand to hide his face from the camera, but it was definitely him. Hunched up on the passenger seat, Jessica looked terrified.

John's heart tightened and he abruptly closed the laptop. "He better not touch her," he muttered to himself.

"They were caught on camera on the NJ-17 going North. Add to this the increase in power drawn from an isolated CIA's safehouse in the Catskills about two hours later, it's likely they took your friend there."

A lump in his throat, John nodded. "Did you get anything on… hum, the other me?"

"I found a John Wilson, partner of Kara Stanton. It seems that most of what they do is kept under wraps, even for the CIA. I did find record of visas for Germany a week ago, but no details on any potential mission were available. We know Ms. Stanton came back to the States, but I couldn't find anything on Wilson."

John nodded. Something must have happened in Germany. Something that made Winters and Kara go after Jessica. He clenched his teeth to control the anger rising in his chest. How did they dare go after Jessica? No matter what John Wilson had done, they had no right.

"What do you think is their plan?"

Harold's question snapped John out of his angered thoughts. He squared his jaw and turned toward Harold a dark gaze. "It's a trap. I – I mean, Wilson – must have done something wrong, and he escaped them. They're using Jessica as bait," he groaned.

"Something wrong?" Harold repeated, wary. "Like what?"

"Sparing someone's life, probably," John said bleakly.

If Finch was right, if they were doubles of the same person, Wilson couldn't have been so different from Reese. John was actually surprised Wilson had survived two years more than himself. But like him, Wilson likely finally had enough of playing the good soldier, following orders, sacrificing his soul for some greater good. In a way, it was a reassuring thought that those two additional years in the CIA hadn't broken him to the point of no return.

Hopefully, that meant John could help him. He handed the laptop back to Harold and grabbed his bag.

"Thank you, Harold," he said, a hand already on the door handle.

But Harold picked a gun from the bag. "Just show me how to use one of these, I can help."

John winced and quickly took the gun away from Harold. Clearly the man had never held a gun in his life.

"Don't worry. I'll manage. You've already helped me a great deal."

"You're going after the _CIA_, John, you're gonna need back up," Harold insisted, promptly getting out of the car after John. "Let me help you."

John didn't think Mark would have brought that much back up himself. If Winters was anything like Snow, he'd want to keep the whole thing as discreet as possible, without involving the hierarchy. When everything you do is off record, it's quite easy to make you disappear. Winters would get a couple of trusted agents to help him make the "Wilson problem" disappear. John was familiar with the method. There was a time where he was one of Mark's trusted agents.

But he wasn't there just to go after Mark. He was there to rescue Jessica, and he should get all the back-up he could get.

"Okay, then."

He pulled two ski masks from the bag and handed one to Harold. "Here, put this on."

Harold frowned. "Is it really necessary?"

"You're going after the CIA, Harold," John reminded his new partner. "You don't want them to know who you are."

Shuffling through his bag, John chose a handgun. "Here," he showed Harold. "You take off the safety, steady your hold and pull the trigger. Given your lack of experience, aim center mass. And _always_ put the safety back on, if you're gonna holster the gun. I wouldn't want anything happening to you."

Putting the safety back on, he handed Harold the gun, picked another one that he holstered in his belt, and chose an automatic rifle that he kept at the ready, before sliding the bag's strap over his head to position it on his back. He put his mask on and invited Harold to do the same.

"Ready?"

Harold nodded. "Ready."

"Stay behind me."

They walked off the road to take cover among the trees surrounding the house, John leading the way. Once they reached the location, they made a large circle, keeping a safe distance with the house, as John studied the perimeter. The house was a modern and unimaginative two floor house, with no neighbors in a couple miles. There didn't seem to be anyone guarding the house from the outside, though he was sure they had surveillance cameras covering the whole area. Despite the dimming evening light, no lights were visible inside the house. There was a car parked in the front, and a black van more discreetly parked in the back. There were two doors to the house, one in the front, one in the back.

Hearing a faint noise – like a branch snapping – to his right, John stopped, signaling Harold to keep quiet. In high alert, John slowly scanned their surroundings, attentive to any suspicious sounds. But now, the only audible noise was a faint breeze shaking leaves in the trees.

Reassured, John raised his hand to signal Harold to follow him, but out of nowhere, someone jumped on him before he got a chance to shoulder his rifle. John managed to punch his assailant, forcing him to step back, but not before they kicked his weapon out of his hand. John assured his footing and raised his fists. Wearing all black and a ski mask of his own, the assailant was a good fighter. And a match to John. For every punch John managed to land, he received one in return. Behind them, he heard Harold cock his gun, but the intruder was smart enough never to stand still long enough. Damn, the guy was good. CIA trained, obviously. It wasn't that often John didn't manage to take down an opponent within a couple minutes.

John managed to push back his assailant, but the man kicked him with his foot violently in the middle of the torso. Air kicked out of his lungs, John lost his balance and fell on his back.

"Don't shoot!" he wheezed at Harold.

The man, who was holding a protective hand to his side, paused. His gaze went from John to Harold, who was awkwardly holding him at gun point. John held his right hand in a sign of peace, while he slowly took off his hood with the left.

The man staggered, staring incredulously at John. "What – what is this?"

"Wilson," John started. "I know this is hard to believe, but - "

Quickly regaining his composure, Wilson pulled his gun. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"My name is John Reese. I'm… you, from another world."

Wilson raised a skeptical eyebrow, not sure if the man in front of him was pulling his leg or not. Either way, he didn't lower his gun.

"Look, I'll explain it all in details," John urged. "But for now, what matters is that Jessica is in danger. I'm here to help you save her."

Now that got Wilson's attention. "What do you know about Jessica?" He asked menacingly.

"I know she's your everything." Despite himself, John's voice broke. "You'd do anything to keep her safe."

Wilson intently stared at John, judging his character, weighing his soul, just like John was doing so often when facing a number. Unable to sustain judgment from his counterpart, John blinked and looked away. Thankfully, Wilson was tactful enough not to ask questions. For now, John's earnest desire to help him was enough. Nodding shortly at John, he finally lowered his gun and took off his mask before turning to Harold.

"And you are?" Wilson inquired.

"Back-up," Harold said, lowering his gun too, and heaving a sigh of relief.

A short smiled brushed Wilson's lips. Harold wasn't exactly a trained field agent.

"Guess I could use some back-up," Wilson finally said, nodding.

He held his hand out and helped John up.

"So, what happened?" John asked as he dusted the dirt off of his pants.

Wilson's gaze darkened. "I disobeyed orders. I let a target go. Kara shot me," he said darkly, pointing at his gut. "But I managed to escape."

"Is that why you killed her?"

Wilson darted at John an angry look. "She had Jessica!" He snapped. He marked a pause before confessing: "She hurt her, I lost it."

John took a deep breath, doing his best to restrain his own anger. If Kara had gone after Jessica, he couldn't swear he wouldn't have killed her too.

"Let's get her back," he said. "What's the plan?"

Wilson tilted his head. "Now that we're three, we can make a proper one. Follow me. Night's coming, that'll make it easier for us to cross the open area to the house."

All three of them cautiously progressed to the border of the wood, and crouched down, both ex-CIA agents studying the house's ways in and out, forging a plan.

"I've already cut the power and sabotaged their back-up generator so all security is out," Wilson whispered. "Though that means they know I'm coming. They're ready for me. But not for you two. We split."

"And we create a diversion," John approved.

"I sneak in from the road, but I let them spot me. They'll all converge to the front, and you, Reese, go in and get them from the rear."

"That's too dangerous," John argued. "Let me be the bait, while you get in from the back."

Wilson shook his head. "I'm not letting strangers risk their lives for me. Not even..." he waved toward John. "My double, or whatever. Wren, you stay here. From here you can see both the road on the left and the back of the house. Perfect vantage point."

John had to admit if it was him, he wouldn't want anyone to take any extra risk for a mission that was his own responsibility. Nodding, he grabbed a second rifle from the bag and a couple more handguns. "Here, take some ammo." He also pulled a phone and a couple of hand-free kits he had taken from Anton. He dialed his own phone's number and switched to conference mode to add Harold's before handing Anton's phone and an earpiece to his counterpart. "Here, keep the line open, we're all connected. Call if you need back-up. I'll tell you when Jessica's safe."

Wilson put in the earpiece and slid the phone into his pocket. He turned toward John. "If anything happens to me, promise you'll take care of Jessica?"

John shook his head. "I made a friend a promise to get home. I can't stay here. So you better make sure nothing happens to you."

Wilson held his hand out and shot him and Harold an earnest look as he shook their hands. "Thank you, both of you, whoever you are and where you're from."

"Good luck," John nodded.

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

**REESE**

John took Wren to his post and gave him some pointers.

"Keep eyes on the road here. Any car you see turning toward the house, you signal us. Also keep an eye on the back door, though it's unlikely back-up would come from the wood. Now, and this is very important, Harold. If you do see anyone coming, you signal us, but you do not move, understand?"

Harold swallowed and nodded.

"This is very important, Harold. I don't want anything to happen to you. You stay hidden. If you need help, you call, we'll be right here."

"Is that the kind of things you and… the other me do all the time?"

John smiled. "Pretty much, yes. Though my Harold doesn't go on the field much. He's better at all those hacking things."

"I bet..."

"Don't worry, Harold, you'll do fine. See you in a bit."

"Be safe, Mr. Reese."

John put his hood back on and hurried to reach the point of the edge of the wood the closest to the back of the house. From there it'll be a short straight line across the open lawn. Barely three minutes later, shots were fired on the other side of the house. That was the signal.

He dashed through the open lawn and flattened against the wall of the house. Given that no one had fired a shot in his direction, it seemed the plan was working so far. By letting their opponents spot him in the front, Wilson had them all regroup at the front. Clearly, Mark had expected Wilson to come alone. It would be his mistake.

There was a short pause in the shooting on the other side.

"Give yourself up, John," Mark called.

"Let Jessica go," Wilson demanded.

"Give yourself up and we can discuss," Mark countered. "Be reasonable, John, you don't stand a chance, here."

"You just watch me!" Wilson shouted before firing a shot.

There was a short scream, which was quickly covered by the gunfire resuming.

At the back of the house, John peeked through a window. All lights were off, and it was dark inside. He bent over to grab a rock from the ground and, waiting for the next round of shots, launched it against the window, the gunfire covering the noise of the window shattering. Still no reaction came from the house, the way was clear. John reached for the window handle, opened it and climbed in.

The room he landed in was completely empty. The CIA wasn't wasting a dime on pretending to make this place an actual home. He made a quick sweep of the rooms at the back of the house, they were all equally empty. No sign of Jessica either. Silently, he followed a corridor leading to the front of the house. Separated from him by a single door, the gunfire was deafening. John estimated there had to be five or six shooters. He then pondered on the best strategy. His main advantage now was that the CIA agents had no idea of his presence right behind them. He decided to trust Wilson to hold the shootout a bit longer, hopefully giving him enough time to find Jessica and get her to safety. Spotting the stairs, John made his way to the second floor, doing his best not to make any noise – though the gunfire turned out to be a very handy cover as well.

The sun had set and it was getting really dark in the house. Holding his rifle steadily in front of him, ready to shoot, John proceeded to check the second floor methodically, room by room. He had done this kind of thing dozens of times. They did a lot a rescue missions in Afghanistan and Iraq. Entering the enemy's house, making a quick, efficient and silent sweep, staying invisible as to not alert the population, and finally securing the target's rescue. John had always been a talented and confident field agent. Those missions never frightened him. But this time it was different. This time the stakes seemed so much higher. Even though he wasn't rescuing his Jessica – that was a mission he had failed a long time ago – it still felt _very_ personal.

The first two rooms were unoccupied at the moment, but they weren't empty. With cots in the corners and random assortments of things – bags of clothes, surveillance equipment, books – they seemed to be the agents' quarters. The third door, however, was locked. Gun at the ready, John stepped back and gave a strong kick with his foot. The door swung open.

It was a bathroom. John heard movement in the bath tub and briskly rotated on his feet, pointing his gun at the form hunched in the tub. In the half-light, John immediately recognized Jessica's silhouette. She was trembling, hands and feet tied up, duct tape covering her mouth as well. John's heart sank as she shot him a terrified look and raised her arms protectively above her head. There were bruises visible through the torn sleeve of her blazer and dry blood at the corner of the tape covering her mouth. John put his weapon aside and dropped to his knees.

"Jessica, it's..." He stopped himself on time. He had to remember, she was not his Jessica, and he was not her John. "I'm a friend of John's. He's right behind me. We've come to rescue you."

Gently, he reached for her wrists to untie the rope keeping her prisoner. He kept talking to her, reassuring, as he removed the tape from her face as cautiously as he could. She moaned as the glue tore her split and swollen lip. John delicately brushed her bruised cheek with his finger.

"It's okay, you're gonna be okay," he repeated.

"John..." she said in a trembling voice. "I knew you'd come."

John clenched his teeth and focused on finishing untying her feet. The rope had been knotted so tightly that it had left deep dark marks on her pale skin.

"What took you so long?" She tried to laugh but failed miserably and her voice broke into a sob. John sat on the edge of the tub and pulled Jessica up to sit her on his lap. He wrapped his long arms around her and she cuddled against him, burying her face in his shoulder. He held her until he felt her trembling subside.

Suddenly the shooting downstairs stopped, and the silence that followed felt unsettling.

In his ear, Wilson's voice crackled. "Running out of ammo here. Not sure how long I can hold."

John reached for his earpiece. "Give us five more minutes," he said.

"I can do that." A few seconds later, an explosion was heard. Grenade.

"We should go," John told Jessica. "Can you stand?"

She swiped away her tears and nodded. John helped her up. She was wearing a simple blazer and a pair of jeans, and only had thin socks to cover her feet. He took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. They were standing only a few inches from each other. Jessica raised her eyes, looking for his.

She reached for his hood, but he stopped her, taking her hand in his.

"Please don't," he breathed, looking away.

He tried not to think about how holding Jessica's hand was making his heart pound louder in his chest. He knew she wasn't his Jessica, but her hand, in his, felt just like Jessica's. Her warm brown eyes, right now full of interrogation, were just like hers. Her golden hair was curling the exact same way around her ear.

"I know it's you, John. Let me see you."

She reached for his mask once again and this time he didn't stop her. He let her take the mask off, run her fingers along his cheek, his jawline, his lips. He had missed her contact so much.

"I'm not your John," he finally managed to articulate. "I'm… his double."

Scared by this strange twist, she withdrew her hand, and John's heart grew heavier.

"He's downstairs." He took his mask from Jessica's hand and put it back before grabbing his gun. "We gotta go. Stay behind me."

John led the way, frequently checking that Jessica was following. They reached the first floor without encountering anyone. In the corridor, not sure which side the danger could come from, John gestured Jessica to come close as they quickly made their way to the back of the house.

John promptly unlocked the door. He already had a foot across the threshold when he heard the characteristic sound of a gun cocking behind him.

"Drop your weapon and slowly turn around."

To be continued...


	8. Chapter 8

**WILSON**

John grunted as he held a hand to his right shoulder. The wound was deep, but not immediately life-threatening, so there was that. The bullet had torn through the muscle and blood was already soaking his sleeve. From the pain radiating through his midsection, he suspected that the wound from the day before had probably also reopened during his fight with Reese. But it would take more than a couple bullets to stop him.

Right now, the most critical point was that John was running out of ammunition. The automatic rifle that his other had given him was out, as well as one of his hand guns. He still had a couple grenades and two handguns – though also only one good arm to shoot. As best as he could tell, there were still three active shooters in the house. He had taken down three of them before one got lucky and hit him. With more time, he knew he could take them all down, but they didn't have the luxury of time. Winters would probably figure things out eventually. Or will simply want to check on Jessica, or make sure all exits were secured, only to find himself face to face with John's double.

"Running out of ammo here," he said through his phone. "Not sure how long I can hold."

"Give us five more minutes," the other John said.

"I can do that."

John shook his head. This was all so unrealistic. Another world? With another him, another Jessica? How was that even possible? He had heard scientific theories about multiple universes, but that was all just theories, fantasies of physicist nerds. Right? How did that man – Reese – manage to cross between dimensions?

Or maybe he was just messing with him. But for what purpose? And he did look exactly like John. What else could explain this? Cloning? Replication? Secret twin? None of it made sense. And none of it explained why he suddenly appeared precisely now and here.

How did he even know Jessica was in danger? And where to find her? The whole situation was totally mind-boggling. And yet, Reese was real. He looked just like John, fought just like John. He probably was – or had been – a CIA agent too. And that pain in his eyes, when he mentioned Jessica, that had shaken John. Something clearly happened with the other Jessica. Or _to_ the other Jessica? John's heart tightened at the thought.

While all those questions kept going circles in his mind, John cautiously peeked over the low wall behind which he had taken cover and he gauged the distance. His assailants had opened two windows on each side of the entrance door to shoot at him, but none of them had dared come out, despite the fact that John was maintaining a safe distance with the house, giving them all the needed space to maneuver. He picked a tear gas grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin out and aimed at the window on the left. There was a loud noise as the grenade detonated and soon, smoke came out of the windows. With satisfaction, he heard swearing and groans coming from the house. Taking advantage of his opponents being temporarily blinded by the smoke, John jumped over the wall and dashed through the garden, flattening against the ground behind a bush. One agent craned over the window to get some air. Expecting this, John aimed at the man's shoulder and shot. The agent fell back inside.

Only two left. Except only one fire responded to his shot, coming from the other window. Which meant someone – Mark, probably – had left the front of the house. Time was running out. John put hermetic glasses on and launched his second tear gas grenade, this time through the right window. The additional smoke gave him good cover, allowing him to reach the house. He climbed over the left window, not without letting out a groan, as the contortions pulled on his torn muscles. Even with his eyes protected from the gas, the darkness and the smoke made it very hard for him to see anything in the room he had entered. Knowing there had to be agents on the grounds in uncertain conditions, he didn't dare step forward. He looked to his right. The faint moonlight was just enough for him to distinguish the blurry shadow of the agent at the other window. John crouched – when people fire back they tend to fire at body level – and cautiously stepped back away from the window's light. Then, he guessed, more than he aimed, at the shadow. Hit, the agent gasped and staggered on his feet. He turned around quickly and he shot back in John's direction. Three quickly successive bullets whistled above John's head, who responded by three shots of his own. The agent fell heavily. Leaning against the wall, John counted thirty seconds that felt like an eternity. As no one seemed to move, he dared standing up and pulled a flashlight. Four of the five agents on the ground squirmed but one stayed still. Unconscious or dead. But John had no time to worry about that right now. Mark was nowhere in sight.

He quickly retrieved all the agents' weapons, kept one rifle with an almost full magazine and stashed the rest far enough from the agents before heading to the door. Raising his gun, he slowly turned the handle and carefully peeked out into the corridor.

He heard voices, one of them being Mark's. Gun at the ready, careful to move silently, he crept down the corridor to get a better look.

Mark, his back to John, was holding Reese at gunpoint. A wave of anger rumbled through John's veins at the sight of the man who had dared kidnap Jessica. Reese stepped forward to place himself in front of Jessica, who was wearing his long black coat, way too big for her. In the dim dusk light, he couldn't see her very clearly, but she seemed distraught and exhausted, so out of place in the middle of their games of war. But she was alive, shaken but in one piece. That was the most important thing.

"I knew something was up," Mark was saying. "It was a good plan, though. It almost worked. Almost."

Standing tall and still, Reese remained quiet.

"Who are you?" Winters asked.

"Does it matter?" Reese retorted, holding his gaze.

Not letting Mark have the chance to question his unexpected guest any further, John pulled the trigger. Hit at the knee, Winters fell to the ground. Reese immediately pulled his back-up gun he had stashed in his back, but he relaxed as he recognized John. John forced Mark up, holding him by the lapel of his jacket with both hands. In his rage, he forgot the pain of his injured arm. Mark groaned, trying to find balance on his one valid leg as John shoved him hard against a wall.

"How dare you go after her, Mark," John spat angrily in his face. "She's innocent. You had no right."

Mark smirked. "You are so predictable, John. It was almost too easy."

John kicked him in the knee, making Mark scream. Then he put his forearm on Mark's throat and pressed. Mark squirmed, searching for air.

"Give me one good reason not to kill you," John hissed between his teeth.

Mark tried to push him back but driven by his anger, John didn't move an inch.

"Wilson," Reese called.

"He hurt her, John!"

"I know. But we're better than him."

John glanced at his counterpart, but it was Jessica's gaze that caught his eyes. She was staring at him, terrified, and she flinched when their eyes met. Shame hit John like a punch in the gut. He darted a dark look at Mark and released his hold. Mark slid to the ground, gasping for air.

Slowly, John bent over, hovering above Mark. "You leave us alone," he said, punctuating each word and pointing a menacing finger at his former handler. "If you ever go after us or anyone close to us, I'll kill you." He tilted his head. "And you know I'm good at it."

On the floor, Mark nodded. "A proof of death would help..." he wheezed.

"Find yourself a dentist," John said, slamming Mark's head with the butt of his gun.

Mark fell unconscious. Feeling John and Jessica's gaze weighing on him, John muttered defensively: "He deserved it."

"He did," Reese admitted.

John took a deep breath to compose himself and did his best to let go of his anger before turning toward Jessica. He slowly took off his mask and gave her a reassuring smile. Reese stepped aside, giving them room.

"John?" Jessica asked hesitantly, doubt still visible in her gaze. She looked back and forth between both men. "I don't understand."

"It's me," John said, holding a hand out. "I'm your John." This definitely sounded bizarre.

Jessica turned toward Reese, who gave her a short nod of confirmation. Relieved, she closed the gap between them and a shy smile brushed her swollen lips as she looked at John with teary eyes. John's heart felt heavy as he noticed the marks of violence evident on her bruised cheekbones, on her swollen lip, on the dark marks covering her pale skin under her blazer. He gently pulled her close and she nestled against his large chest.

"It's okay, Sweetheart," John said gently, stroking her back slowly. "You're gonna be okay. I'm here now."

"Who are those people?" she asked, sending sidelong looks to Mark's unconscious figure. "Why did they go after me?"

"It's my fault. It's all my fault, Jessica. I'm so sorry. I promise nothing will ever happen to you again."

She raised toward him her beautiful brown eyes. "But what did you do?"

"I'll explain everything, but we better get out of here." John kissed Jessica on the forehead and pulled away. Noticing she wasn't wearing any shoes, he went and retrieved Mark's. "That'll have to do for now," he said, kneeling down to help Jessica put them on.

Rising to his feet a little too fast, John suddenly felt light headed, his knees shaking. He stumbled to the wall and leaned on it. Now that the stress-induced adrenaline burst had receded, he was finally feeling the consequences of the blood loss from his wounds.

"John!"

Jessica rushed back to him, and helped him keep his balance. But she quickly retrieved her hand, sticky with blood. "John, you're hurt."

"Just a scratch," he breathed, putting on a brave smile. Two scratches, actually, and both in need of medical attention.

Reese stepped in, and offered John a hand. "We should go," he said, sliding his shoulder under John's arm.

John leaned on Reese and pointed at Mark, still unconscious on the floor. "We should probably call 911, too. Six men down."

"Only six?" Reese commented as they exited the house. "Mark clearly underestimated you."

"Well, they were trained agents, just like us."

Amusement sparkled in Reese's eyes. "So?"

John smiled. "Yeah, he should have known better."

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

**WILSON**

Leading the little group through the woods back to the car, Reese took the wheel while his friend Harold Wren rode shotgun at his side. John and Jessica shared the backseat. Worried about his state, Jessica insisted on taking care of his wounds, which she cleaned and bandaged with a first aid kit that Wren had retrieved from the trunk of his car. John had a hard time reading the little guy. He clearly didn't have the profile of an operative, didn't even know how to carry a gun, and until today, didn't know any of them. And yet he had come to their rescue, no questions asked.

In the safety of the car, Reese finally told them the craziest story about how Wren's other had built a crime-preventing computer and now they were secretly preventing crimes together.

"How about Nathan?" Wren asked. "He's always been advocating that technology should serve to move society forward. Such a _machine_, as you call it, sounds like something he'd be interested in."

Behind the wheel, Reese nodded. "Finch coded most of it, but Ingram is the one who came up with the Irrelevant program."

Wren smiled. "See, I'm not surprised."

"But on our side, the Machine was a secret program ordered by the government. Ingram was the official head of the project, and he had doubts about the government's intentions with such a powerful tool." He marked a pause and eyed sideways at Harold. "They killed him," he said in a low voice.

Wren gasped. Keeping his eyes on the road, Reese put a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Harold."

He then explained how they received Jessica's number and John helped fill in the blanks, explaining how he let go of a target who clearly was not who they thought, how Kara found out, and how she and Mark used Jessica to get to him.

"Now that I think of it, do you think it's possible we got the wrong Howard Silk? He matched the picture we had on file, but he clearly had nothing of a spy."

"That, or they wanted you to eliminate one too many Silks."

Exhausted, Jessica curled up on the back seat, still wrapped in Reese's long coat. Her head resting on John's lap, his hand in hers, she quickly fell asleep. John looked down at her, the love of his life. He had been so close to losing her. He was torn between the guilt that she was put in danger all because of him, and the relief to have been able to save her, to finally be reunited with her, after all those years apart. He promised himself he would never leave her again. They would probably have to find new identities, relocate somewhere else. John hoped Jessica would agree to come with him. His heart sank at the possibility that she might not want to. What if she didn't forgive him for today's ordeal? What if she was afraid of who he had become?

They had reached Manhattan and were discussing a safe place to lay low when, just as they were stopped at a red light, a public phone started ringing on their right. That immediately got Reese's attention. He dashed out of the car and picked up the phone. A smile appeared on his lips.

John rolled down his window to try and hear the conversation.

"It's good to hear your... voice," Reese was saying. "Thank you."

He hung up and hurried back into the car. The light, which seemed to have remained red for an abnormally long time finally turned green.

"I know where to go," Reese announced.

He led them into an old building covered with scaffolding in Midtown Manhattan. From the state of the interior, the building was clearly abandoned. There were books all over the floor.

"What is this place?" John asked.

"The decline of Western Civilization," Reese answered enigmatically as they climbed a large and majestic stone staircase.

"It's an abandoned library," Wren said, lightly speeding up the stairs. "Nathan and I had been buying them with the hope of restoring them. Sadly, we got taken by other projects and never got around to renovating this one."

Reese turned to him, inexplicably content. "That's the beauty of it, this place actually belongs to you, but no one knows! Well," he added, suddenly more serious. "I guess on your side, Nathan knows."

They settled for the night in the library as best as they could. In a corner, hidden behind rows and rows of books, there was a small reading area, with an old shaggy sofa and three old armchairs. Reese went to do a full sweep of the building, making sure everything was secure. Somehow, he managed to bring them back blankets and pillows.

Harold picked the least sagging of the frayed chairs. John gave them a dubious look and was about to choose the safer, relatively cleaner floor, but he felt Jessica's hand squeezing his. Actually, she hadn't let go of his hand since they got reunited.

"You two take the couch," Reese offered with a wink. "I'll take the floor."

John gave him a grateful nod, and he nestled on the couch with Jessica spooned against him. Caught up by the exhaustion of the past forty-eight hours and lulled by the soothing sound of Jessica's even breathing, it wasn't long until John fell asleep.

But no amount of exhaustion would overwhelm his spy training. A couple hours later, John woke up, feeling instinctively that something wasn't right. He raised his head and took a look around. Jessica was still sound asleep, as was Harold, despite the weird and uncomfortable position he'd fallen into. However, there was no sign of Reese, his pillow left abandoned on the floor.

Careful not to wake up Jessica, John extracted himself from the couch and went looking for his counterpart. He found Reese sitting alone at a large round table which they had passed when they came in. Through the scaffolding covering the facade, the street lamps were casting a faint light, outlining Reese's chiseled profile. Lost in his thoughts, he startled when he heard John come up behind him. He shot him an uncertain smile, that didn't hide the redness of his heavy gaze.

"Sorry I didn't mean to disturb you," John said in a low voice.

Reese shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "It's okay. I just couldn't… sleep."

John picked a chair, brought it to the table and sat opposite Reese. "What's wrong?"

Reese glanced at John and bit his lips. "It's hard, seeing the two of you together," he admitted, his voice hoarse.

John studied Reese. He knew that look. The man was trying to contain his feelings, bury them. It's what they learned as agents. What they needed to do, to survive the brutality of their work, of life. But they were more sensitive than they let on.

Yet, behind Reese's stoicism, there was something more. Something that John glimpsed when they first talked in the wood, when Reese mentioned Jessica. It was a real fragility, a crack that John did not recognize in himself.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

Reese remained quiet and John respected his silence, giving him time. They weren't the expansive type and this was clearly a difficult topic for Reese.

"I failed her," he finally said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I let her go." He made another pause, before looking up at John. "How come your Jessica didn't marry him? Peter Arndt."

John frowned, he hadn't thought about that man in ages. "Arndt? That's her ex, right?"

"So… She broke up with him?"

John nodded. "They were already engaged, but I stumbled upon her at JFK, totally by chance, and I asked her to wait for me. She broke things off."

Reese clenched his teeth, holding back tears. "I didn't… I didn't ask her… It's all my fault…"

He suddenly looked up and the intensity of his gaze made John shiver.

"He killed her," he said, hands trembling with rage. "And she called me. She called for help, and I was stuck on a stupid mission in China, and I wasn't there for her. I was too late..." He briskly wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I asked for a leave, but they wouldn't let me..." He sighed, suddenly defeated, his gaze heavy and hollow. "The best part is, it was a bogus mission. They sent Kara and I to retrieve a package and asked us separately to get rid of each other. She shot me. And I was too late..."

John could barely breathe. His chest was aching as if his heart had physically shattered. Just the thought that Jessica could be dead was unbearable. The idea that there had been two Jessicas and now only one existed was painfully heartbreaking. He wondered how Reese had survived such a tragedy. He couldn't imagine a world where Jessica was gone forever. All those years at the CIA, the one thing that kept him from losing himself was the idea that Jessica was out there, waiting for him.

"What did you do?"

Reese made a disillusioned pout. "I killed him." He sighed. "It was messy. It was wrong. But I didn't know what else to do."

John thought of the rage he felt when he saw Kara twist Jessica's arm, how her cry of pain pierced through his heart like millions of needles, how much he wanted to make them all suffer in return, and how close he had been to killing Mark with his own hands. Now that it was all over, he felt a little ashamed – scared even – of his actions. Given the situation, one could have argued that killing Kara had been necessary, but he had already neutralized Mark, hurting him was gratuitous and against the ethics he was priding himself to follow in his line of work. But if – God forbid – something irreparable had happened to Jessica, John was pretty sure he would have thrown all his rules through the window, and made them pay to the height of his pain. But he knew such an execution – such a _murder, _not perpetrated in the hope to protect anyone but as a simple revenge – would have changed him forever.

"I'm so sorry."

This sounded so flat, so little. He knew there wasn't anything he could do to make Reese feel better. There are wounds that do not heal. And after all the pain and the guilt over the loss of the love of his life, now Reese was confronted with Jessica's double. So close and yet so far, because not his.

"Maybe you should talk to her," he suggested.

John vehemently shook his head. "I can't."

"It might help you get closure. After all, she is Jessica."

"I can't tell her how I failed her. She'll hate me. I don't think I could handle that."

"I can't believe for one second that Jessica could hate you. It wasn't your fault, John."

Reese shrugged with defeatism. "Doesn't change anything. There's two of us, two Harolds, and yet, only one Jessica. Her other is dead, because I couldn't save her."

This was true. No matter the terrible combination of factors that led to Jessica's death, the fact remained she was gone. Forever. And Reese had been left wandering aimlessly in a colorless world, with no possible means to fix things.

"How did you survive?" John breathed.

Surprised by the directness of the question, Reese blinked. Ill at ease, he pinched his nose and looked down, staring at an invisible point on the table.

"For a long time, I didn't." He looked up again and John was struck by the painful sorrow in his eyes.

John reached out and put his hand on Reese's arm. "But you did."

A fleeting twinkle appeared in his eyes as his expression suddenly softened. "Finch found me. The Harold from my side," he explained. "I don't know how he found me, maybe it was his Machine. I'm just grateful he did." Words were suddenly coming a lot more easily when Reese was talking about his friend. "He came to me and offered me a job, and a purpose – his words – and it's like I was reborn. We're helping people, together. It won't bring her back, nor any of the people I killed, but when I go to sleep each night, I feel a little bit better knowing that I saved a life today."

John nodded. He knew too well the burden of their work at the CIA. A burden that felt heavier as years passed.

"It might sound weird, but you know, I feel relieved that I'm out," he admitted. "That wasn't really the way I imagined my retirement, but I'll take it. All those killings, they were weighing down on me."

"How come you're in the CIA at all?" Reese asked. "I don't get it. I quit the army right before 9/11. If it hadn't been for 9/11 I -"

"What's 9/11?"

"Oh, right," Reese caught himself. "On September 2001, there was a terrible terrorist attack against the United States. They crashed two planes into the World Trade Center, one crashed on the Pentagon..."

John shook his head, horrified. "That's awful. There must have been thousands of dead."

Reese nodded. "Four thousand. And a whole nation traumatized. I had just quit, as a gift to her. But when I saw the towers fall… I had to re-enlist, I had to fight for my country. One thing lead to another, I joined the CIA. You know the rest. But I saw the towers when I landed in New York this morning. I'm guessing it didn't happen here. So, how come you didn't quit?"

"I'm not sure what was different in your world. The big flu of '96 kinda re-ignited the patriotic flame here."

Reese frowned. "I don't remember any particular flu in 96."

"Oh really? You got lucky then. It killed seven percent of the world's population. It was terrible here in the US. And no matter the containment measures, it wouldn't stop spreading, as if someone was actively sabotaging everyone's efforts against the epidemics. There were rumors about The Other Side, though no one knew who that really was. Everyone thought it was something big, and that they were keeping it from the public. I thought that by joining the CIA, I could be part of something. Find those bastards from that other side, and make sure they'd never do anything like this again. No way I would have quit by 2001. Now, though? With time, things got a lot murkier. The other side is still a mystery, and I don't know if we're really doing any good… We've lost perspective and I feel like I've lost myself..."

"Why didn't you quit, then?"

John looked down. "I was afraid to come home. I've done so many terrible things, all the killings. Some days I feel like that darkness inside me has swallowed me whole. Kara used to say..."

"We're the dark."

John nodded sadly. "I was afraid Jessica would be scared of me, of that monster inside me. I saw how she looked at me when I hit Mark..."

"You just saved her life, that probably earned you some good points."

"But she was put in danger because of me… I don't know what I'd do if she rejected me. She's been my only light in that darkness we're walking in."

"What she needs right now is to feel safe. She needs you. Be there for her. We're the same, I know you're gonna be fine."

John shot him a small smile. "Thank you. And thank you for being there for us today," John said. "I probably wouldn't have managed to save her all on my own. So maybe you shouldn't beat yourself up too much for not asking Jessica to wait for you. Jessica isn't alive today because of me, but because of _you_, John."

"I don't know..." Reese shrugged, unconvinced.

"It's been… weird, but also an honor to work with you."

A smile finally appeared on Reese's face. "For me too. More than you can imagine. Knowing that there's a world where Jessica is safe means a lot to me."

"I promise, I'll never let anything happen to her."

"I know." Reese paused and then added: "You should try it, saving people. It helps taming the monster."

"But we don't have your machine here."

Reese sat up, hit by a sudden idea, and he got up eagerly. "Wait here."

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

**REESE**

Remembering he saw an old PC at the book check-out desk, John hurried downstairs, and came back with an antique CRT screen, a CPU and a keyboard. The mouse was nowhere to be found. With Wilson's help, they managed to lay electric and internet lines up to the round table. After dusting off the old computer, John switched it on. The CPU screeched, and the screen turned on, showing the OS terminal.

Heart pounding, John typed: _are you here?_ and anxiously looked at the dash blinking, hoping for an answer.

_Hello Primary Assets._

John turned excitedly to Wilson.

"Is that… your machine?" Wilson asked.

John grinned. "Yes, that's the Machine. It can reach us here! And it knows we're together. Primary Assets, with an s. That's us!"

"How does it work?"

John chuckled. "I have no idea. Basically, it's watching people 24/7. Via surveillance cameras, our online activities, our phones. And from there it can predict if someone's gonna commit a crime – or be victim of one. It sends us a social security number and it's up to us to figure things out and prevent the crime."

"That sounds like downright science-fiction. Minority Report but with a computer instead of pre-cogs."

It wasn't long until the Machine sent them their first nine-word code and Reese explored the library to gather the three matching books to decode the number. They started investigating, gathering all the information they could find online about a certain Peter Quayle.

* * *

Morning found the two ex-spies still hunched in front of the old flickering screen, as they tried to figure out if their first number was a victim or a perpetrator.

John stretched out and yawned. "I'm getting hungry. How about some fresh pastries?"

Wilson rubbed his eyes. "I could use some coffee too."

"So do I."

"I know a good place a couple blocks from here," Wilson said as he got to his feet and grabbed his jacket. "I'll be back real quick."

"Oh," John called Wilson back with a grin, "if you want to impress Harold, bring him back some Sencha green tea."

Wilson shot him an amused smile and left the library.

Left alone, John couldn't resist the curiosity to search for his friends' others in this world. Doing some research on the computer he easily found out that Detective Carter was a prominent figure of the Homicide task force at Manhattan's Eighth precinct. Some more research led him to find out that she was still married to Paul and they were raising Taylor together, along with his younger sister, Lucy. Lionel Fusco didn't get as lucky. Fired from the NYPD, he was now getting by doing some PI work. John's heart tightened as he found a bunch of DUI and assault reports. It looked like the other Fusco hadn't solved his alcohol problems.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to dig too deep into this world he didn't belong to.

Instead, he decided to look for airline information for his trip back to Berlin, when he heard the soft sound of light footsteps approaching. He turned around to see Jessica, still not fully awake, her messy hair partially covering her face.

Ignoring the pinch in his stomach caused by the simple fact of seeing her, John greeted her with a warm smile. "Good morning. John went for breakfast, he'll be back in a minute."

Jessica nodded and sat next to him. John turned his attention back to the computer screen but he could feel her gaze on him. He glanced at her sideways.

She blushed slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm staring. It's just so weird. I know intellectually you're not him, but you look exactly like him, and part of my brain can't help but see him."

John nodded. "It's weird for me too."

"You didn't say anything about my double, yesterday. You said you were working with the other Harold. What about the other me?"

John closed his eyes, his chest hurting.

"We're not together?" Jessica asked softly.

Still unable to look at her, nor to formulate any words, John shook his head.

He quivered as Jessica reached for his hand but he didn't withdraw it.

"What happened?"

His gaze locked on her hand on top of his, John cleared his voice. "I didn't ask you – _her_ – to wait for me, at the airport. She married Peter Arndt. And he…" John's voice broke as tears were dangerously rising in his eyes. "He killed her," he finished, the words feeling painful in his mouth like cut glass.

"Peter?" Jessica said, surprised.

"I'm so sorry..."

"Peter killed her?" she repeated, still baffled by the revelation, and unaware of how painful those words were to John.

"Domestic violence," he said, his voice hoarse.

"I wouldn't have thought he was like that."

"I'm sorry, Jess..." John repeated.

"It's not your fault."

As John was still refusing to look at her, she cupped his cheek in her palm, forcing him to face her.

"It's not your fault, John. You're not responsible for his actions. Nor Jessica's. That is not your fault."

"But if I had asked her to wait, like John. If I had managed to come back faster after she called… I could have saved her. But I was too late… I should have disobeyed, like him. Not go to China."

His other, somehow, had made all the right choices. He dared ask Jessica to wait. He rushed to save her when she was in danger, he risked everything for her. Jessica, however, seemed to see things a bit differently.

"Disobey?," she retorted. "And what do you think would have happened? John asked me to wait for him, and I did. That didn't keep me from danger. If it wasn't for _you_, I'd probably be dead, as would be John. There's no way to know what would have happened if we had done things differently. But don't think he's a better man because he made different choices. You're just as good a man as John Wilson. You hear me? Never doubt that. You're a good man, John Reese."

"So... you don't hate me?" John asked hesitantly.

The thought was so ridiculous that Jessica burst into laughter. "Of course, I don't hate you, John. Why would I even hate you?"

John looked down. "For not asking you – your other – to wait. For not saving her."

Jessica looked at him seriously and tenderly took his hands in hers. "You're worried she hated you?"

John nodded imperceptibly. "I failed her..." he breathed, despite the painful lump in his throat.

"I'm really sorry you lost her, John," Jessica said softly. "I can see how deeply you loved her. I wish I could duplicate myself, but that's not how it works, is it?"

John smiled sadly and shook his head.

"I'm not your Jessica, but I'm still a version of her. And you just crossed dimensions to come and save me. I'm still here today, and that's all because of you. You didn't save your Jessica, but you made sure there was still one living. And you succeeded. That only tells me enough about who you are, and how much you care about me, about her." She leaned in to give him a heartfelt hug. "I could never hate any version of you," she said tenderly. "I loved you when you were one, and I love you now however many you can be."

"Even if you don't have a double in the other world?"

She reached for his cheek and gently wiped away the dry tears. As if reading the unspoken words behind his question – that he had no Jessica in his world, she added: "I'll keep a place in my heart, just for you, John."

Jessica's words, her presence at his side, her laugh, were a soothing balm to his battered soul. For the first time since her death, thinking of Jessica wasn't filling him with guilt and despair. Her touch was bringing him comfort, peace. She was not his Jessica, and she would never be his, but a part of Jessica was living inside her. John could see it in the way her eyes twinkled when she laughed, the way she moved her hair away from her face with the tip of her fingers, in the way she understood him like no one else ever had, but also in the generosity of her heart. In all his pain and sorrow, he seemed to have forgotten how much love Jessica had to give. She was too good to ever hold his faults against him.

He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her lightly. The whole thing was completely surreal. He was in a parallel world, with a clone of Jessica he didn't know until the day before, and yet, there was an evidence, a natural connection between them, that John couldn't explain. He wasn't fooling himself with any thoughts that he could be with her. He was very aware there was already another John in her life, and he would never even fathom the thought of competing with his other self, but simply being in the presence of Jessica's double felt nice, comforting. It felt right.

"Thank you," he whispered.

* * *

When Wilson came back with a box full of donuts, three coffees and a Sencha Green tea, everyone was up. In the absence of a shower in the library, they were only able to do a very basic wash in the bathroom's sink. Add to this the fact they were still wearing the clothes they slept in, they all looked passably disheveled.

Harold Wren was doing a few stretching exercises between two book rows. He jumped to his feet when Wilson handed him the tea, shooting him a suspicious look as he identified his beverage of choice.

"Relax, Wren, I haven't figured out your favorite color yet," Wilson quipped.

"Burgundy," John grinned.

Harold Wren looked even more alarmed, before relaxing a little as he realized it was Reese who had given Wilson information on his love for Sencha green tea.

They all sat at the large round table and enjoyed this moment of genuine camaraderie after the rough events of the previous day. Full, if not completely rested, they all felt much better. Watching his new friends, John put down his empty cup and leaned back in his chair. Unable to resist the curiosity, Harold Wren had taken place in front of the old computer screen and was discussing with the Machine, testing its ability. Next to him, Jessica was attending to John's wounds, making sure they weren't becoming infected before changing the dressings.

There was something quite satisfying in this scene. Harold, the Machine, John and Jessica, all together.

John smiled to himself. He couldn't wait to tell _his_ Harold about all this.

Wren looked up from the computer. "This is absolutely remarkable," he said to John. "I'm quite proud of my other."

"Don't forget Ingram," John said. "The irrelevant program isn't a small matter. None of us would be there if it wasn't for him."

"That's so like him," Wren said approvingly. "Do you think I could show him all this? – my Nathan, I mean. He'd be fascinated. This is all based on some crazy ideas we had in college."

John tilted his head. "My Harold would probably advise you to be careful with sharing such a secret. It cost many people their lives, including Ingram's. But as long as the secret doesn't leave this group, no one will be after you in this world. If you trust your friend, he'd probably be a good asset to your group."

John grabbed his notebook from his jacket, tore out a page and wrote down two names. He split the page in two and gave Wilson and Wren an half each.

"If you ever need some more help," John told his counterpart. "It looks like in your world Fusco spiraled down further than in mine, but he actually has a big heart. Help him out, he'll be a loyal friend. Yours left the force, but in mine he was a damn good detective. He sure would be a good asset to the team."

Turning to Harold, John pointed at the piece of paper where he had written Grace's name. "In my world, she is Harold's sweetheart," he said with a wink. "Look her up."

Wren frowned. "You want me to stalk her?"

John chuckled. "Of course not. Find her, and just ask her out, like normal people do."

Feeling like he did all he could have possibly have done in this world, he got to his feet and grabbed his black coat. "I guess I better get going, my visa is going to expire soon and I still need to get back to Berlin."

"You don't have to leave so soon," Harold objected.

John smiled. "Actually I do. Harold is waiting for me. I'm needed on the other side. But numbers will be in good hands with you on this side. I'm not worried."

Wilson got up to shake Reese's hand. "Thank you, John. It's been an honor knowing you. I wish I could repay you for everything you've done for me."

John tilted his head and looked fondly at Wilson and Jessica. "Just be happy for me."

"Will we ever see you again?" Jessica asked.

John tilted his head. "Hopefully not. But don't worry, I have your number. I'll be there if you ever need me."

He waved them goodbye and walked toward the hallway leading to the exit but Jessica ran after him.

"John," she called.

He turned back and found himself standing only a couple inches from her. She gently cupped his face in her hands and rising to her tiptoes, she put a delicate kiss on his lips. His heart was pounding so hard it was buzzing in his ears. John closed his eyes as her lips lingered on his, her touch reviving memories he hadn't dared thought of in ages. Their first kiss, their passionate reunions each time he'd come back from a training camp or from overseas, Mexico...

"Thank you, John Reese," she whispered. "You're a good man, don't ever forget that."

He put a delicate kiss on her forehead and smiled tenderly at her. "Keep yourself alive for me?"

"I promise," she said, smiling back at him.

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

**Epilogue **

Seeing Harold Finch sitting on their bench in Queensbridge park brought a smile to John's face. There was something reassuring in the familiarity of the scene. It wasn't an odd familiarity, it was a real one. John couldn't explain why, but he knew it was _his_ Harold, _their_ bench. Not another version of reality.

Lost in his thoughts, Harold didn't seem to hear him approach, and he startled slightly when John materialized by his side. An earnest smile illuminated his face as soon as he identified his friend, though John couldn't help but notice the dark rings under his eyes, and a slight sink in Harold's posture. Clearly Harold hadn't slept much in the past couple of days.

"Mr. Reese, it's such a relief to see you."

"Harold, you were worried?"

"You had never ventured so far from… New York, before."

John smiled. "I actually spent the night in the library. It was just as messy and abandoned as it was before we made it our quarters here."

"How was it, on the other side?"

"Weird. And beautiful in some ways."

Harold shot him a questioning look.

"Jessica's alive. Ingram's alive." John explained, as his gaze lingered on the South end of Manhattan. "Hell, the towers are still standing."

"So you managed to save her?"

A soft smile brushed John's lips. "I did. With a little help from Harold Wren and the other me." John chuckled. "That sure was the most bizarre mission ever. But hey, I got them all safe in the library, introduced them to the Machine..."

"Them?"

"You, me and Jessica."

"And you told them all about the Machine? Isn't it too dangerous? And Jessica is not exactly a field agent..."

"Neither were you, Finch. Jessica's a nurse, and she's very capable. She'll be a good addition to the team. Also, I'm guessing Wren will tell Ingram."

Harold turned to John, a disapproving frown on his face. "You can't tell everyone about the Machine, John."

"It's different over there, no one knows about the Machine. There's no one looking for it, for them. Don't tell me you never wished to be doing all this with Nathan. Over there is like the paradise we've lost here. The two of us saving numbers, but with all the people we love."

Suddenly filled with melancholy, Harold looked in the distance. "Almost all..." he whispered.

"Oh, don't worry, I didn't forget you. I gave Wren Grace's name."

The disapproving frown immediately reappeared.

"Don't worry, Finch, they'll all make a good team. And they have Wilson – the other me – to protect them all."

"Wilson?" Harold smiled. "You don't look like a Wilson. I like Mr. Reese better."

"I guess Kara wasn't as inspired on the other side," John said with a grin. "So, tell me, Finch what other government secrets did you discover when you first plugged in the Machine?"

"Nothing else of much importance beyond your usual little State secrets. The US spying on their allies, Russians spying on everyone. Oh, and that decommissioned time machine, secretly stored in a military facility on the West coast."

"A decommissioned… what?"

FIN.


End file.
